


Outnumbered

by myracingthoughts



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Interrogation, Post-Canon, Restraints, Timeline What Timeline, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29217999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myracingthoughts/pseuds/myracingthoughts
Summary: “No!” Karen’s worn voice rang out. “Leave him alone. Take me instead!”Frank and Karen wake up in a basement, tied up for reasons unknown.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Karen Page
Comments: 16
Kudos: 45





	Outnumbered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [treaddelicately](https://archiveofourown.org/users/treaddelicately/gifts).



> For Felicia, who I'll basically write anything for, but _especially_ Kastle. Bless you, my taste twin.

It was hard to hear over the pounding in his skull. Even harder to see in the dark.

“Karen.”

Frank Castle could feel the creak in his joints as he tested them one-by-one, rolling his neck from left to right as he tried to get a handle on his surroundings.

“Karen?”

But still, a steady chant left his lips, rote repetition the only thing guiding Frank back to consciousness in those early, bleary moments. He hadn’t had his bell rung this hard in a while— at year or two maybe.

“Frank?”

Thank God. Frank let out the breath he’d been holding as he tried to follow the sound of her voice. They were maybe five feet away from each other, from what he could tell. His eyes were just starting to adjust to the lighting. Well, what was left of his eyesight. 

One of them was so swollen he could barely see through it. 

Karen was in better shape, at least. Small mercies. Face bruised so bad it took her a moment to find him in the dark, busted lip that had already dripped down her front, and a few scrapes, but otherwise, Karen looked just like she did when they on their way back from the goddamn grocery store.

“Frank, how did we even get here?”

Did they even make it home? The memory was still a little foggy.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” Frank promised, still waiting for his eyes to adjust as he avoided the question. 

“Wherever here _is_ ,” Karen croaked humourlessly, and he could hear the jingle of chains as she tested her handcuffs behind her back.

And as much as he blamed himself, knowing he should have known better than to be out in the open, who the fucking anticipates a kidnapping in the middle of the day in Manhattan? 

But he didn’t have time to think about what they should have done. Not now. No, the real question was whether they were here for him or her. And, based on the fact Frank was the only one whose feet were chained together and bolted to the floor, it didn’t look great at first glance. But his hands were cuffed with only duct tape…

Which meant their captors were either old-school, ill-prepared, or idiots— none of those being mutually exclusive, of course.

Frank wasn’t sure if they were lucky enough to catch The Punisher on an off day, or stupid enough to accidentally get a hold of him when they were just trying to scare off a journalist. But based on the hodgepodge restraints, Frank was starting to lean towards the latter.

Not that there was time for bartering, not when Frank could already hear the whisper of footsteps on concrete, just around the corner out of view. 

Eyes locked to the entrance, he gave Karen one last instruction.

“Karen, I need you to listen to me, sweetheart. Don’t say anything, don’t do anything. I’ll get us out,” he rumbled, making sure he held her gaze.

Even though he could see the dim flick of a nod, he knew better than anyone his requests often fell on deaf ears. Karen was never one to sit on her hands and do nothing, even in the face of danger. Some days he liked that, others he blamed on Red, but, at the end of the day, he knew it was all her.

It was one of the reasons he’d fallen in love with Karen in the first place. 

But that kind of initiative, that reactive strike or banter, would be playing right into their hands— they wanted her to talk back, to have an excuse to get to their hands on her, rattle her up some more.

Especially if they were trying to put on a show for him, with all their torture toolkit lined up in a row on a stainless steel table across the room.

_Pathetic_.

“Look what the fucking cat dragged in,” a snide voice cut through the dark, a dark-haired figure standing in the doorway. “Nice and fresh out of the meat grinder, huh, boys?”

Any other day, Frank would’ve asked Karen where she’d managed to stick her nose into this time —after all, he’d been quiet for the past few months, presumed dead by most. But from the accent bleeding through their captor’s words, he knew it was the damn Russians again.

Did it ever end?

And the pieces started to fall into place as their captor paced between them, picking up the file folder jammed with surveillance prints and various documents. Hell, they could’ve printed out the whole of Wikipedia and stuck it in, for all he knew.

It was all for show.

But the desperation was palpable. The Russians were still licking their wounds from being so publicly beaten down by Fisk and the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, they must have been out for an easy win. And Karen — _his_ Karen — had a tendency to look into things the dark corners of the city would prepare to keep hidden, so here they were.

More than they’d bargained for, Frank would bet by the scared look in the guard’s eye and the fact no one would come within a few feet of them, even though they were tied down. At least word got around, fear hanging in the air like he was some sort of boogeyman for criminals.

The Punisher wasn’t dead and didn’t take prisoners.

Just bodies.

Frank sat like putty, pliant, quietly testing out the restraints for give with each subtle flex of his hand and forearm— trying not to let it squeak or snap in the drip, drip silence of the deserted basement. Trying to buy time as he scoped out the place. 

A handgun and a shotgun on the table. 

An array of throwing knives and scalpels. 

A handsaw.

“Where do you think we should start, Mr. Castle? I think a few fingers would make it hard to shoot.”

Two more guards came just into view, lingering outside the room in the hallway as Mr. Mysterious dramatically waved his hands over the table full of implements— considering his options.

Oh, they were in for a party, alright, but probably not the type they’d planned.

They were officially outnumbered, not that something as simple as that had ever stopped Frank Castle. Not when he was already scuffed and rattled around in the back of some van. It was starting to come back to him now as he sized them all up, figuring out which ones had weapons where. 

No, that was practically Frank Castle’s version of an easy day at the office. After all, what was a little more blood on him at this point? 

And, barring any complicating factors—

“No!” Karen called out, voice crackling in the dark as the ringleader’s head swivelled to assess her.

Frank cursed under his breath. He should have known she would have fallen for the bait, taking any chance to knock some asshole down a peg or two. If they hadn’t been in this situation, he might have been proud, but here, with these men and these tools at their disposal, she was asking to get hurt.

Or worse.

“Karen, it’s fine— this asshole’s just trying to overcompensate for other areas in his life,” Frank practically spat at the asshole, words venomous as he tried to take the heat off Karen. “Fuckin’ coward, taking a woman off the streets.”

“Bold of you to assume I grabbed you both for _her_ ,” the man shot back confidently enough to fool most, but not Frank Castle.

Frank could see the concern lining his face, the way he refused to meet his eyes, the way his fingers hesitated as he answered like he was carefully considering his words. No, this wasn’t according to plan. This dickwad was camera shy— clearly not expecting an audience to what was probably supposed to be a cut and dry intimidation on a female reporter.

Hopefully, they fired whoever did their recon for this glaring error— if Frank didn’t get to him first.

But Karen couldn’t see it the way he did, the metallic jingling getting louder as she struggled with her restraints, “No, Frank.”

“Yes, I think a few fingers will do,” the man concluded, grabbing what looked like gardening sheers from on top of the table and stalking towards Frank.

But it was all a veneer, clear as fucking day.

“No!” Karen’s worn voice rang out. “Leave him alone. Take me instead!”

Ice ran through Frank’s veins at her tone, her insistence, and though he could barely see out of his left eye, he knew that desperation anywhere. His breathing was starting to pick up, sharp huffs filling the air as he had the fucking audacity to even look at her.

The asshole’s eyes slid from Frank to Karen in one teasing glance, a menacing grin stretching cheek to cheek as he crooned, “Oh, we’re going to have plenty of time together. Why rush?” 

Dropping the shears back on the table and settling for a scalpel, he closed the gap between himself and Karen. Wrapping his fingers around her neck, he dragged the back of his filthy fucking across her cheek, the scalpel drawing a red, pinpricked line across her jaw as Karen whimpered in his hold, struggling to breathe against his hold.

Frank had to hold back the growl, but the man seemed to see him tense. But apparently that wasn’t enough of a reaction for him, as the man dropped his hold and let Karen sink down to the floor, wheezy breaths ringing out into the room.

“On second thought, no. I think I should take care of your little lap dog first.” 

A breathy chuckle preceded the punch that seemed to echo off every surface. That raw bone-to-bone crack that Frank seemed to watch in slow motion as Karen’s head snapped back at the impact. The one that sent her all the way down to the floor, instinctively clutching her jaw as her head hit the concrete, hair curtaining her face as she stilled.

“ _No_!”

That roar seemed to echo off of every surface, the guttural bellow rattling every bone in his body. All Frank could see was pure red.

“Is that all it takes to shake the great Frank Castle? And here we thought you’d been neutralized. Guess it was neutered instead.”

Maybe Frank should have taken that as an insult— a lesser man might— but Frank was too busy seething over Karen’s motionless body across the room, hoping for any sign of life. Wouldn’t even give him the privileged of looking him in the eye.

This scum didn’t deserve it.

“You shouldn’t’ve fucking touched her,” Frank growled.

Not that any of them were going to learn a lesson, never mind walk out of here alive, but he needed them to know they fucked up. Needed them to know he was about to make them suffer for even thinking of touching the only bright spot in his useless fucking existence.

The only good thing he had left.

With a quick glance to make sure Karen was out, eyes closed, no peep out of her. There was a little blood dripping down the side of her head now from the fall. And it was like he could see it in HD— every speck of filth, every scrape, every bruise beginning to appear tallied and totalled in his mind’s eyes.

The only thing that stopped Frank from tearing his handler limb from limb in that split second was the rise and fall of her chest.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to be criticizing me, Mr. Castle,” the man chuckled. “Do you know the price on your head? How much money my men made just by getting you off the streets? The price we can pay to cart you and your girlfriend’s bodies away? You and I are in the same business, my friend. Trading body counts for favours.”

Frank huffed a laugh, “Somehow, I don’t think you’re going to get the payday you’re hoping for, asshole.”

He’d ask who the fuck this guy was, but at this point, Frank didn’t really care. He wouldn’t be alive long enough to matter.

“The only way that happens, Mr. Castle, is by some miracle. And I think we both know you’re not a godly man.”

“I think you don’t know a thing about me. I think you didn’t even know I was with Karen when you nabbed her, and now you’re trying to make the best of a shitty, dangerous situation,” Frank gasped. “How am I doin’ so far? Close?”

He took the man’s silence and the way he flexed his fist at his side as a win.

_Come on, get angry_ , he all but taunted in his head. Frank could use anger— his captor’s in particular. The guards were young, probably too young to see the carnage of a Punisher crime scene in person. Maybe they’d heard whispers. Maybe that’s why their fingers hovered over their holsters at the back and forth.

The sneer and the forced laugh were the cherries on top, as the asshole leaned in close to whisper in his ear, “Might as well get a good look at her now. You might not be able to recognize her once my men get done with her, provided you live that long. They always look so angelic when they’re unconscious, hm?”

Taking the opportunity of the asshole in arms’ reach, with Karen safely on the floor and out of the line of fire, Frank went off like an explosion. Head to their chin, the headbutt sent the man stumbling back and clutching his jaw in front of him. Frank tore his hands out of the poorly-wrapped duct tape, grabbing the chain at his feet and wrapping it around the asshole’s neck, angling him as a human shield as he lay limp in his grasp.

One-shot, two-shot. Both missed Frank, but not his captor’s organs. 

The boy was nervous— practically shaking in his brand-new, barely worn work boots as his gun jittered in his grasp. He probably had every right to be. The second guard had split as soon as Frank leapt up, not even bothering to attempt fighting back at the one left eyed him warily. And now, all he could do was point a still-hot gun at him, like his boss wasn’t already dead by his weapon.

“You leave, and I swear on my fucking life, I’ll come after you,” Frank warned. “But go ahead, run. Have fun looking over your shoulder for the rest of your godforsaken life.”

A little bravado went a long way, especially when Frank was just angling for a few more seconds are rifling through his human paperweight’s pockets, searching for the key. He ignored the blood dripping down his face, the pounding in his ears that was deafening at times, as he catalogued the guard’s face for future reference.

And watched him bolt, tail between his legs, realizing he’d done the Punisher’s job for him. 

Just in time for Frank to find the key and a cell phone— practically a luxury in these types of situations. And _he’d_ know. He dropped the dead weight, slumping to the floor in a bloody heap as he unchained his feet.

“Tough fucking luck,” he spat, blood dripping from his mouth to the asshole’s white jacket for one last look. “Piece of shit.”

But his tone changed as soon as he realized Karen still wasn’t moving, that the blood was pooling around her head like a halo on the concrete floor. Frank grabbed a gun off the counter, checking it was loaded before kneeling down beside her.

“Karen?”

Frank let all his weight collapse beneath him, the adrenaline starting to wear off as his captor’s injuries began to set in. He used his arms to break his fall, scrambling over her as he cupped her face, leaving rusty streaks across her cheek as he tried to will her awake.

“Karen?”

Her eyes fluttered open, squinting at the dim light flooding in from the hallway. Possible concussion. Maybe a fractured cheekbone or jaw by the way she hissed at his hold on her face. He let her check go like he’d burned her, faced screwed up as he watched her piece it together. Filling in the blanks that happened when she was out as her eyes surveyed the room, landing on the body just feet away.

“Are you OK?” Karen asked in a hushed whisper. Her eyes darted across him, too, as she added with a hiss, “Jesus. Frank?”

Her thumb traced the swelling above his eye, dropping down to survey the split in his lip.

“S’nothing,” he tried to assure, more concerned with getting her up to her feet. Can you walk? We gotta go.”

“Yes, yeah— but let me stitch you up when we get back. Wherever we end up.”

She knew the deal. They were burned, and now, they had to figure out just what these assholes had wanted from her before they could get back to any semblance of normalcy. Like either of them knew the definition of the word.

But first, they had to figure out where the fuck they even were, to begin with.

“Yeah, yeah,” Frank grumbled, helping her get to her feet.

Karen wobbled, holding onto him a little too tight as he helped her up. Swinging an arm around her back, Frank propped her up, helping them both hobble out of the room as his free hand gripped his one and only weapon. With a groan, they took every concrete stair step-by-step, every muscle screaming bloody murder. She’d be feeling this worse tomorrow, he’d bet— they _both_ would.

Frank surveyed their location as they reached the top of the step. Abandoned warehouse. Classic.

Karen manned the cellphone, muttered under her breath for the app to load faster.

“We’re in… Jersey?” she announced uncertainly when they were in range of singal.

Who the fuck wanted him in Jersey? The answer was probably a lot of people, but no particulars immediately sprung to mind.

Frank sighed, “Of course it’s fucking Jersey.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading. All comments, kudos and bookmarks are loved and cherished.
> 
> This fic was a prompt. You can find my [prompts list and details here](https://pasmonblog.tumblr.com/post/635410523601649664) if you're interested in adding to my WIP list (please do).


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